


Supernova

by Thoughts Like A Minefield (Incog_Ninja)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Biting, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Bondage, Bruising, Cutting, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Dubious Consent, F/M, Knifeplay, Name-Calling, Rough Sex, Sexual Violence, The First Blade (Supernatural), This Is Not Your Mother's Dean Winchester, Vaginal Fisting, almost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 19:36:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17331095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Thoughts%20Like%20A%20Minefield
Summary: Since Dean's had the Mark and the Blade, he's pulled away from you, afraid of hurting you. You miss him and you've had it. One night you push him to the edge.





	Supernova

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maddiepants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maddiepants/gifts).



“Why would you test me like this?”

There’s an edge in his voice, a darkness in his eyes. You wouldn’t even say it’s a rhetorical question because that would be something logical, something you can understand, something of this world.

You were flirting – some would say innocently. Haven’t you seen the pushing-buttons kind of flirting in a million romantic comedies and romance novels? That’s all it was, simple, innocent flirting.

“You’re  _so far_ outta your element, princess,” Dean says, circling you, where you’re hung from what looks like a meat hook, wrists bound by rope. It hurts – the chafing from the intricate braiding of the rope, the pull of your arms over your head, the hard and rapid beating of your heart against your rib cage.

“Dean, I-”

“Just… don’t.” He makes a point to look you dead in the eye. “Okay?”

You nod and let out a shaky sigh. You watch him pace; he seems to be working himself up or down, you can’t tell which, but you know what you hope it is.

“I don’t  _want_  to hurt you,” he says, seeming to reason with himself. “But this…” It’s his turn to sigh long and deep as he glares down at his own forearm, fisting it roughly and digging his thumb into the mark there. “This  _does_  want me to hurt you.”

You draw in a deep breath, consider your actions carefully. He’s watching you again and he’s suspicious.

“Is that what you want?” he asks, turning to walk toward you, loose limbs, too far gone. “For me to  _hurt_  you?  _Force_  you? Cut  _into_ you?”

He stops just a foot in front of you then, and you can feel the heat radiating off of him. It’s cold in this dungeon and you’re usually wearing more layers when you’re down here. As it is, he’s got you stripped to your camisole and cargo pants.

“Dean…” you answer, bare and pleading. “I didn’t-”

“Right,” he says, reaching behind his back to deftly pull the blade from its place. “You didn’t think.” He studies the knife as if he’s never seen it before as if he hasn’t obsessed over it, as if you all haven’t obsessed over it for weeks before setting on his circular path around you once more.

“You didn’t think the way my brother and Cas talk about me in hushed tones behind my back was something to listen to.” He drags a finger along the exposed skin of your lower back, where your top’s ridden up.

You close your eyes over the burn of tears and listen to his boots scuff and stomp the concrete, shiver from the chill his hot finger leaves behind on your skin. His voice is mocking, razor sharp, and you can feel it burn into your senses.

“You didn’t look at this rhythmically pulsing firelight on my arm and think, like any other  _dumb animal_  in the kingdom of animals, that it might be a red flag!” He stops in front of you again and you open your eyes. “No, not  _you_.”

When you take in his features there’s nothing resembling Dean left. Nothing of the hunter who holds your heart, who’s saved a billion lives many times over. All you see is rage.

“You thought you were  _special_.” He laughs, snorts, actually, and rolls his eyes in amazement. “You thought…” Then he’s in your face, huddled in close, so close you can taste the whiskey in the puffs of air on every word. “You thought I’d soften, didn’t you? That I’d back down, that that  _come back from the dark side, big, doe eyes, love of a good woman_  crap would cure me.”

Dean studies your face. “Well…” Then he slowly stands upright, drags the blunt side of the blade across your shaking collarbone then down around the swell of your breast. “You were wrong.”

He jerks the blade up under the stitching of your top’s neckline and slices it clean through before tucking the blade between his straight, white teeth – all the while his eyes are glued to your breast. Then he grips the neatly cut fabric in his hands and yanks the front open, watches your tits bounce free, and draws a deep breath through his nose.

You keep your own breath steady as he snatches the blade from his mouth with one hand, the other reaching out to gently cup the object of his desire. He brushes your nipple with his thumb and lets his eyes climb up over the slope of your chest, the sharp ridge of your clavicle, the undulating curve of your throat.

Slowly, his eyes finally snag yours, and he smiles just as slowly. His gaze is as deep and dark as the twist of his lips. He is truly terrifying in that moment, and you are so turned on.

“Dean,” you breathe so much into that one syllable.

Dean pauses, holds your eyes, searches them and grins wide when he finds what he wants to find. “Nah,” he says with a head tilt and side-eye. “You  _like_  this.” His smile makes your skin tingle and spark. “You  _want_  this.”

He looks less mean now, more curious and delighted.

“Yes,” you whisper and bite back a gentle sob, bite your lip, squeeze your eyes shut.

Yes, you want this, but this is wasn’t you expected. You expected him to be aggressive, dominant, a little bit rough. You expected him to manhandle you, to leave fingertipped bruises on the soft curves of your hips and thighs. You couldn’t expect anything else from the Mark and the way it’s changed him.

You hoped he’d hold you down, hover over you, hot breath against your neck, lips, tongue and teeth, caressing your skin.

“Yes,” he echoes, bringing the blade into view. “This.” He says, moving the blade, gently pressing the tip into your breastbone, dragging just as gently.

You don’t feel the cut, but you do feel the wet ooze of blood. It’s a luxurious feeling; it makes you sigh and moan, and your eyes fall shut. Time slows down and you’ve forgotten that Dean’s even there until the tip of the blade leaves your skin cold.

Before your newly opened eyes can focus, Dean covers the beginning edge of the wound with the warmth of his mouth. The gentle cascade of your blood caused no change in temperature, so his tongue and lips are scalding as they slash across your thin skin, licking and sucking.

Then you register the sounds he’s making – wet lapping and low, quiet whimpers. He’s breathing heavy, too, which reminds you to breathe, and you gasp. “Dean.” You can’t say anything else, and when he looks up at you, abruptly, lips and chin smeared red, his eyes are glazed.

He pauses briefly before the knife is back. This time it’s there to slice the button from your cargo pants. The tip that brought you such a thrill mere moments ago traces a wet, crimson line over the curve of your lower belly as the razor-sharp edge of the blade opens the front of your pants with ease.

He doesn’t speak. He palms the knife in one big hand, shoves the hand into the back of your hair, tangling his fingers and the blade with the tresses, mixing everything with your blood. His other hand – his fingers dance through the trickle of blood that coats the soft hairs and soft skin of your belly and trace a path to the edge of your underwear before dipping in without hesitation, dipping down between your legs, sliding between your wet pussy lips, inside with one slick finger then back up and around your clit.

You feel hot tears fill and spill from your eyes as he fucks you with his fingers, fucks your mouth with his tongue. “Such a hot little bitch,” he breathes into your mouth, bites your lip to bleed, sucks it clean. “ _My_  bitch.”

Dean’s never been possessive or demanding. He’s always been a gentle, caring, and thorough lover. But lately, he hasn’t been anything, so you thought you’d push him a little. Now he’s making you bleed, staking a claim.

He’s going to make you come with his blood-streaked hand in your cunt, and, as much as it thrills you, this isn’t Dean. This is the Mark.

He twists his wrist and folds his pinky into the thrust of his fingers, and you cry out. You’re stretched to the max, never been this open in your life.

“You want my fist?” he whispers against your jaw, biting into the bone, but not drawing blood this time. You’ll be bruised, though, for certain.

His hand is big, and all four of his last knuckles are inside you. His thumb presses and rubs roughly over your clit as he curls his fingers into a fist and makes small punching motions.

“I could rip you open right now and you couldn’t do a damn thing about it,” he grits through his teeth, yanking your head back by your blood caked and blade torn hair. “Instead, you’re gonna come like a bomb, aren’t you?”

You nod furiously, clench around his hand and the ache, the itch. You hear yourself breathing, gasping, whining. You think this might be it – he just might tear you apart – but that only serves to push you further.

“Dean,” you sob, tears flowing freely, mixing with the blood from your chest. “I…”

Then sparks fly through your veins, your body seizes, rigid and trembling. You feel a gush of hot, wet between your thighs and hear Dean groan to God and  _fuck_  and  _that’s right,_ _sweetheart_. And then everything goes black.

 

* * *

 

You can hear your name in his calm, firm timbre. You’re exhausted and sore, and you’re suddenly freezing. Your eyes flutter open and you see dark blue eyes, concerned and searching.

“Don’t move,” Castiel says. He wraps an arm around your rib cage and a hand around one of your wrists and lifts. You whimper in pain as he slowly drapes your bound arms over his shoulders before stooping to lift you into his arms. “Just breathe and give me one minute.”

He carries you to the plain wooden chair just three strides to your left and gently sets you down. You look down at your chest, your belly, your partially exposed thighs. Your skin is coated with dried fluids – some of indeterminate nature, some bringing warmth to your skin.

“Dean sent me to check on you,” Castiel says, with a gentleness you know is well-practiced, and you’re thankful. He helps you settle then slowly brings his fingers to your forehead.

“Wait,” you whisper, your throat dry and sore. You’ve gripped the angel’s wrist and can see by his look it doesn’t sit well with him. “Please, I just… I don’t wanna forget.”

Even if Dean feels guilty about what happened between the two of you, you know you can convince him that you liked it; that you wanted it. You had even said you wanted it, and he heard you. You want to remember and you want to talk about it with him. This is the kind of thing that makes relationships stronger. Maybe it’s just what the two of you need.

Castiel seems to war in his mind with your request. “Dean was very specific about what he wanted me to do,” Castiel says. His hand hangs in your slight grip, as the shutters in his eyes begin to close. “Please just let me heal you.”

“Okay,” you relent, close your eyes and wait. “I just wanna be able to tell him everything’s okay, ya know?”

Castiel presses his warm fingers to your cool forehead until the pain and the mess have all gone away. When you open your eyes, he has his back turned. When he faces you again, he presents you with a stack of clothes. “Dean asked me to give you these.”

The clothes aren’t yours, but they’re almost identical to what you were wearing when you and Dean were in the garage… Were you just back from a hunt?

“Dean would like for you to get dressed so that I can take you home.” Castiel gives you a regretful kind of smile before bowing out of the room. “I’ll be just outside,” he says.

You try to remember what you and Castiel were just talking about. But you shake your head and make quick work of your soiled, shredded clothing before dressing in the fresh, softness of the new pants, camisole, and flannel shirt. They’re creased where they were folded and smell like plastic. You wonder why Castiel would give you new clothes.

As you lace up your boots, fuzzy images from – was it the night before? was it the hunt? a dream? – float through your mind. When you’re ready and you’ve surveyed the room for anything else you might need, you reach the door to let Castiel take you home.

“I’m ready,” you say, closing the door behind you, looking up and down the hall. “Do you know where Dean is, by the way?” You look back up at Castiel, blink, and you’re in your kitchen.

Vertigo overwhelms you, and have to sit on one of your barstools. You see Castiel rooting through your refrigerator. “What’re you…” He stands and hands you a bottle of water. You blink a few more times to catch up with the space travel, or whatever the fuck it is he does.

“Dean summoned me and gave me instructions to care for you,” Castiel says. You look up at him expectantly as you crack the cap of the bottle to take a sip of the cool water.

“Care for me?” you ask. You’re dazed and tired. When you look back up at Castiel, he resembles a worried deer in headlights, and it makes you laugh. “Cas, it wasn’t a big deal. It was a milk run.” You chuckle, trying to remember the hunt the night before.

It was a milk run, right? You’re not even bruised. Tired, yes. Confused, thirsty, exhausted, actually. But not a scratch.

You think maybe a nap will do you some good.

Castiel draws a breath of what appears to be relieved. He’s relieved that you aren’t hurt.

“Will you be alright?” he asks, looking around your small apartment. “Alone, I mean.” Then he settles his gaze back on your slumped form.

You nod. “I’m good, Cas,” you answer. “I just need some sleep.”

Castiel nods, brow slightly furrowed. “Well,” he pauses. “Call if you need anything.” He really has practiced this human thing well.

You smile and thank him again. “I will,” you say, and he’s gone in a flutter of wings.

You take another breath and finish your water before trudging to your couch and turning your TV on to find Return of the Jedi playing. “Perfect.” You don’t even bother with your boots as you collapse into the cushions and drag your throw over your torso, curling into a ball with a sigh.

As you drift off to the sounds of Luke and Leia and Han and Chewie, battling the empire, images of green eyes and sharp teeth, the feel of bruising fingers, and a blanket of red lull you into a dream.


End file.
